The Code of Omerta
by Child of Mars
Summary: Illya is sent on a mission, a mission that will prove more than a little disturbing as he is forced to question his heart and his duty, as he infiltrates the dangerous and harsh world of the Mafia...rated T for minor violence in further chapters. A/U
1. Chapter 1

**The Code of Omerta**

Illya Kuryakin strode briskly into Waverly's office, his active mind already mulling on numerous possibilities for his next mission. For some reason, it seemed to help during briefing if you filed all the useless, trivial information you discovered during the week into your brain. Mr. Wavely's objectives always took their source from just that, seemingly useless and trivial information.

Illya made no secret to himself of his admiration for Mr. Waverly, which knew no bounds. If there was ever a man for controlling U.N.C.L.E. and handling world events with such thorough and adept skill, it was Mr. Alexander Waverly.

His jacket open and flapping, tie swinging, Illya paused only a second as the door slid open. Waverly turned as he entered and gave him an appreciative nod. "Mr. Kuryakin. Sit down."

Illya slid into his seat and leaned forward a little eagerly to peer at the video screen. "So, what is THRUSH threatening to do now?"

"Actually, its not THRUSH we're dealing with today, for once." Mr. Waverly turned in his seat and pulled over a file before sliding the table around until the file ended up in front of Illya. "You're aware of that group called the Mafia, of course?"

Illya opened the folder and fingered a few sheets meditatively. "An organized crime syndicate originating from Sicily, made up of primarily Italian descendents, concentrated on breaking the law in whatever lucrative way possible?"

"Correct, Mr. Kuryakin. But as they don't threaten the world at large or even the country, we usually leave them to the FBI or routine investigations. But about two days ago we came across something big." He pushed a button at the desk controls and the screen lit up.

Illya scanned in vain for the shadowy, blurred faces of the six figures gathered around the large rack. They seemed to be in an airport, but no one could be seen except for a few figures in the far distance.

The image flipped to another. The men were reaching into the racks and examining the items inside. Again, everything was rather blurry. The day was grey and overcast, while the men wore trench coats and fedoras to hide their already indestinguishable features. Mr. Waverly noticed Illya's face furrowing in concentration. "About the poor picture quality," he explained, "it was taken by a civilian who thought it looked suspicious. We appropriated it from the local police station."

"I gather you weren't able to make a positive identification?"

"Except one. The man with the container in his hand. As far as our information goes we believe him to be a caporegime. You know what that is, I presume?"

Illya nodded, face serious. "An officer in the Mafia who leads ten to twenty men, in direct charge of carrying out their crimes." He squinted at the image. "He's rather young, isn't he?"

Waverly gave him an amused look. "He's a year or so older than you, Mr. Kuryakin. But to be a caporegime, yes, he is young. We have very little on him in our files. He's been very careful at covering his tracks so far, but we do have a few minor felonies pinned on him.

Now, about what they have in that rack. From certain sources we have reason to believe that the Mafia has actually managed to collect information on a special drug that causes extreme contraction in the lungs, called Exhale 4."

Illya was incredulous. "The Mafia did this?"

"Not on their own. Apparently on one of their raids they killed this fellow, Dr. Maltar." A thin face came on screen. "He was waiting for a THRUSH pickup at a restaurant, carrying the plans and the only samples with him. His suitcase was somehow blown open in the ensuing mishmash, and some particularly bright Mafia soldier found the formula and took it."

"Our young caporegime?" Illya guessed. Waverly nodded again, pleased. "Exactly. And that is where your mission comes in. What we're afraid of is that this man or his superiors will sell a supply of the drug back to THRUSH. I want you to infiltrate the Mafia, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya almost raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "I'm Russian, Mr. Waverly." He was not afraid of death or torture but knowing the strict ethnicity the Mafia observed, he gauged his chances to be on the low side of failure.

"Immaterial, Mr. Kuryakin. That file contains all we know about the Mafia hierarchy and traditions. You'll be taking an Italian language and programming course that will have you ready in less than a month. We've been monitoring Mafia communications and we believe you to have just that much time to prepare yourself."

Illya took the papers and stood. "Why aren't you sending someone who already speaks Italian and better yet, is Italian?"

Waverly gave him a discerning, commanding look. "Because we've already tried that. The man was killed. Our caporegime is a very clever man, and so I need a very clever agent."

The dismay at hearing how a genuine Italian had failed turned to swelling pride and then to pricked gloom at the last phrase.

"And unlimited pasta is not part of your mission, Mr. Kuryakin, not unless you pay for it yourself."

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Illya pulled the hat further over his eyes, hands deep in the pocket of his trench coat as he stepped carefully across the street and into the brightly lit nightclub that shone its red light in both warning and invitation. The murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses and the name above the door told him he had found the right establishment for what would be a very important part of his plan.

First of all, he had a fake story of his past and a proper name to fit his new life. Luigi Giano. Him, a Luigi. But the name was almost as much a part of him by now as his own. His Italian accent had been perfected; his grasp of their customs was complete. Now came the test. He would not begin working for the Mafia immediately. He could only be invited.

It was much easier and more practical to start work for a local gang instead, one that was known to have dealings with Mafia business. By working up a good record with them, he would already have a criminal background when he tried to join the Mafia.

So, he started working for Mr. Acalpa, a slimy racketeer whose main income was illegal drugs, weapons, and supporting the Mafia for a healthy sum when they needed some cheap fighters for a night job.

Tonight was one such of those night jobs. Illya saw several faces he was familiar with, all of them scattered unobtrusively here and there around the bar. Fernandez, Joe, Nikolai, Peters, Rafburn, all of them fellow employees of Acalpa. The only difference was they were genuine. They had all been briefed together in Acalpa's study and then gone their separate ways afterwards, meeting up at this restaurant.

Here, they would be contacted by the caporegime in charge of the operation and five Mafia soldiers. Illya ordered a drink, his blue, intense eyes never ceasing as he gazed carefully over the room, searching for his contact and the signal.

Then, a man came in. His overcoat was buttoned up tightly and a fedora was pulled down so far it covered his eyes. He gave the room a once over before walking by, his hand purposely brushing along the bar before swooping up a glass cup. No one made a move to stop him or looked surprised when he put the cup on top of the jukebox. The man disappeared through a back door.

It was as if an electric signal had been sent. Joe gulped down the last of his drink and pulled a cigarette out before casually, almost tranquilly, saunted through the door. Nikolai thumped his drink down twenty seconds later and followed. Rafburn asked for the restroom and went in. Peters and Fernandez came soon after. Illya took a deep breath that was completely unnoticeable by an observer. Outwardly he appeared calm and even dangerous.

He sat up and went over to the door, rested his hand on the handle a moment, and then pushed inside.

Ten heads turned slightly, some more obviously than others, as he closed the door behind him. There were five men in the room whom he knew, six he didn't. And he didn't trust any of them.

The ones he didn't know were the Mafia soldiers. One or two were sitting with Illya's own group, but the rest were standing against the wall, giving the others a disdainful, almost scornful look. They were the elite, while these mercenaries were just associates, gentiles, people of lower class and ability, sheep like all the other law abiding citizens of the town.

Illya moved almost insolently to a seat near the front, ignoring their glares and their tough poses as if they were thin air, even though he knew they each carried automatic weapons under their coats. His own group looked at him with a little relief; Illya had risen far in their esteem in the short time he had 'worked' with them, due to his ingeniosity, skills, and bravery.

The caporegime was seated on the edge of the table, mulling over a clipboard. He was the only one who hadn't looked up when Illya entered. The air was very silent, and he seemed completely oblivious to them all. Illya could feel the growing irritation and impatience coming from his group. But he stared intently at the caporegime's head, ready to imprint that face to his memory forever and file it away as a suspect when it showed itself. The clock ticked on. And on. And on.

Suddenly, the caporegime's wrist twitched as he flung the clippboard against a wall. It clattered loudly and every man in the room except Illya and two Mafia soldiers jumped. The caporegime finally looked up at them all, and he smiled.

It was a daredevil, friendly, heartless smile. A smile that spoke of danger ahead and death behind and a friend with a knife at your back to boot. He stood up. "Well boys, time for business, hey?" His voice was very lightly laced with the Italian accent.

And Illya recognized him immediately from the picture. His eyes were light brown and sparkling. His dark hair was parted neatly into a thick, black wave over his forehead. His slightly cleft chin and heartmelting smile immediately marked him as a charmer. The way he carried himself marked him as a killer.

The caporegime put his fists on his hips and took a few steps, studying them all very carefully, weighing the value of each member. His eyes linger on Illya, who met his gaze squarely. Finally, he seemed satisfied. "Good evening, boys. I'm your caporegime tonight." He leaned back on the table casually. "You can call me Mr. Solo."

**to be continued**


	2. Chapter 2

Solo reached under his coat and pulled out a handgun, loading it skillfully and swiftly in front of them. "I'm in charge of this operation, as you know. If you deviate from the plan for more than a second, you will answer to me with either a good explanation or," he aimed the pistol at Illya's face, smiling slowly, "your life."

He holstered the weapon. "Today we're doing a little discipline. Marfredo's a cousin of my Family. He's held back on his Tribute share to our boss for quite some time. Now we're going in there, and we're going to collect all that he owes the Family as well as a little interest. Say, twice that much?"

"He broke the law of tribute. Why aren't we going to kill him?" Illya spoke out, judging it a good time to expose his knowledge of the Mafia.

Solo game him a good look. "What's your name?"

Illya didn't blink. "Luigi Giano." He rattled off.

"Hhm. Well, 'Luigi'," Solo said the Italian name pointedly. "You're familiar with the Code, then?"

"I am." Illya would say no more. To explain too eagerly might set off Solo's suspicions.

Still looking at him, Solo's face relaxed and he shrugged. "To tell you the truth, Luigi, his hide isn't worth the ammo. Besides, he may be a stingy rat, but he's still a good man. It would be a pity to lose his services downtown. So, we're just teaching him a lesson first."

"And if he does it again?"

Solo's eyes darkened, and his voice went low. "Then he dies."

They gazed at each other, feeling challenged but not knowing how. Solo felt himself both fascinated and drawn to this blue eyed, blonde Italian. The strict control the man had over himself, the unrelenting look in his eyes, the way his hand rested over where his weapon was hidden pointed him out as a unique individual.

Solo found he was very much looking forward to seeing Luigi Giano in action. He smiled flippantly and resumed the briefing, glancing back at the man all the while, always finding the blue eyes meeting his. "Marfredo runs his business in a storage building on South 38th Street near the new mall they built last year. This movement has to be hard, thorough, and fast. We go in, destroy opposition with as few casualties as possible, break open the safe, and get out."

Illya listened and watched. As he saw the charismatic influence the man had, the fire in his eyes and the clever strategy he had worked out, he could see why this man was a caporegime at such a young age.

"You…Peters? You're going in front with my crack team, Antonio, Marcellino, and Bucco. Fernandez, Rafburn and Mario take the back door, Joe, Nikolai, and Giovanni take the garages. And Luigi," he turned to gauge the man's reaction. "is going with me through the windows on top."

Illya's only answer was a small smile that made Solo wonder. Was it a smile of triumph? Of anticipation? Or was he laughing at him?

_Well_, he thought, as everyone stood up, ready to leave, _I'll find out tonight._

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Solo bent over the windows, peering closely at his watch. Two small shadows moved below as the guards paced their night rounds. Behind him, Illya stood, finger light on the trigger, as he guarded Solo's back.

The watch hands crawled slowly. Solo cast a glance up at the other man, once again unwillingly impressed by Luigi's ability to become unnoticeable. Something about Luigi attracted and intrigued Solo. He was a walking mystery, somehow out of place yet belonging, both drawing and repelling Solo.

He shrugged off the feeling as Luigi, sensing his gaze, turned bright blue eyes to look at him. Solo met that gaze. It was not quite a challenge, not quite a treaty; it was electric yet accepting.

Suddenly rememberig why they were here, Solo glanced again at his watch. 11:43…11:44…11:45!

At that very minute, several things happened.

There were multiple simultaneous crashes as doors all over the mansion were kicked down. Gunfire rang out, vibrating throughout the rooms, mingled with a few shouts. Solo put his legs together, covered his face with his arms, and jumped straight through the roof window.

Illya followed in an instant, firing as soon as his feet hit the ground of the second story floor. He shot a weapon out of one man's hand while Solo fired at another. Back to back, they moved quickly towards the door. Illya opened it as Solo fired a few more shots, covering him.

They came to a stairway landing. Out of the shadows of that closed up space, Illya saw something move. He fired, and missed. The man leapt out and hit Solo in the chest with a thud as Solo cried out in surprise. The two fell, struggling and grunting with pain as their rolling bodies hit the hard edges of the stairs. Suddenly, Solo's hand latched out, grabbed the banister, and stopped their fall, but the guard was still clinging to him.

Illya ran down to them and kicked the guard hard in the face before he could attack the caporegime anymore. As the man fell back unconscious, sliding down a few steps, Illya pulled Solo up by one arm.

Solo gave him a grateful, "Thanks".

"You're welcome. Try not to do that again." Illya responded shortly. Solo gave him a surprised look for a few seconds, but then, to Illya's own surprise, Solo laughed.

They pelted downstairs, meeting up with the others. Then they moved as one into Marfredo's office, killing the two surviving guards before blowing the safe and emptying its contents.

"Right." Solo whispered harshly, brushing back the black hair from his face that had come loose during the fight. "You remember where to meet? Split into twos and let's go!"

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Illya stayed quietly in the back of his original group. A drizzle had started up, and many of them had pulled their collars up as they clustered in the dark street. The Mafia soldiers were waiting by the car as Solo, hair brushed back, long overcoat, and fedora hiding most of his face, was once again the mysterious figure of earlier.

Solo gave a thick wad of green bills and a letter to Nikolai. "See you give this to Acalpa. He'll pay you, as usual. Make sure he doesn't stiff you. There's a bit extra in there."

"Why?" Nikolai asked suspiciously, glad of the money yet wary of it, since it often spelled death for the unlucky.

Solo turned away, seemingly ignoring him. Then, as if on impulse, he turned back. "Because he sent us a good bunch of guys, for once." But as he said this, his dark eyes lingered on Illya, whom he seemed to be able to locate easily even in the back of the crowd.

Solo went over to the car and leaned against it, watching the others leave with a detached air. But as Illya began to follow, he called out, looking at the stones somewhere by his feet. "Luigi."

Illya paused; looked at him a moment in just as cool a detachment, then came. He refused to allow his steps to be eager, hurried, or hesitant. "Yeah?"

Solo looked up without straightening, his attitude relaxed and controlled. "You did pretty good in there."

"I know."

A corner of the caporegime's mouth turned up. "You Italian?"

"Born and bred, both mother and father."

"You like working for Acalpa?"

"Do I really have to answer that?"

"How about a more dangerous, more binding, better paying job?"

"Will it probably get me killed?"

"Uh-huh."

"Does it mean a vow of utter silence and loyalty?"

"Yup."

"Mafia?"

"Yeah."

"I'm in."

Solo looked up and straight into Illya's eyes, searchingly. Then he spoke, his voice pleased yet wary. "Good. Let's go." He opened the rear car door. Illya squeezed in between Bucco and Antonio. Solo got in front, while Mario slipped into the driver's seat.

Illya showed no signs of success or relief or excitement. He watched the window casually, looking at cars go by, knowing that all the while, Solo's eyes were burning into him. The communicator felt extra heavy in his hidden coat pocket. He had done it. The first, easy step was over. Now came the real battle.

He was in the Mafia.

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After the initiation ceremony, Illya was quickly 'put on ice'. He was instructed to stay at home and only go to certain places for his necesities until further notice. He obeyed implicitly, knowing it was a test, knowing that Solo didn't trust him.

"_Open Channel D. Kuryakin here."_

"_This is Mr. Waverly. Go ahead with your report, Kuryakin."_

"_I've sucessfully entered the Mafia." Illya looked at the scar on his wrist ruefully. "And have just partaken to the full in their initiation ceremony."_

"_Oh? Have you met that caporegime…Mr. Solo, yet?"_

"_Yes, I have. I'm still on probation, but I should be able to investigate for the whereabouts of Exhale 4 rather soon."_

"_Very good, Kuryakin. We'll work on this end to certify your 'criminal' records to our best ability. Inform me of any new developments as you search for Exhale 4. Oh yes, and uh, take care. Waverly out."_

_Illya smiled slightly before putting the communicator away._

It was Marcellino who eventually came to fetch him. A simple alchohol run, except that this time, the Feds were suspicious. Solo met them at the garage where the truck was being loaded. His words to Illya were short, clipped, and commanding. "Marcellino and you will be taking rear guard. If the Feds start following, we put on full speed and try to lose them at all costs. Worse case we abandon the cache and get out. Understand?"

"Perfectly." Illya responded. He took the automatic someone handed him, checked it, then brought it to the car. Marcellino went into the driver's seat. Several cars and then the truck went before them, rumbling out into the streets as they followed.

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Illya swore in Russian as the car swerved, nearly colliding with the wall of the road-turn. _Speaking out of character…Mr. Waverly will kill me. _He stiffened, realizing his colossal mistake and glancing at Marcellino. Luckily, his fellow soldier hadn't seemed to notice, squinting his eyes against the headlights from the Feds' cars as they shone in the rearview mirror.

Shots rang out again. Illya leaned far out of the window and fired at the tires, not sure whether he hoped more to hit or miss. Return fire came, shattering the glass and chipping paint, denting metal. Illya winced and pulled back inside.

At that moment, something popped loudly below them. The car started vibrating violently and pitched towards the side of the road. "Brace yourself!" Illya cried. The shockwave as the car hit the ditch felt like it would rattle Illya's bones out of connection and his head banged against the seat and window. A fierce headache welled up inside his cranium as the rumbling stopped and the car came to a halt with a violent jerk.

He pulled himself up and looked at Marcellino. The driver was bleeding heavily in a red stream from a gash in his temple. The other cars zoomed off behind them on the road.

Looking at him, Illya realized just how young the Italian was, with short, thick, curly brown hair and chocolate colored eyes that were almond shaped. He had seen him gun down men before in cold blood but now, eyes closed and bleeding, he looked so young.

Illya reached forward and slowly, gently, pulled him loose, tugging him out of the car. Marcellino moaned softly as Illya got him out onto the cement. The Russian checked the man carefully for further injuries. Apart from bruises and the nasty cut, there appeared to be nothing serious.

Illya took off his jacket and wrapped it tightly around Marcellino's head. Then he stood and looked up and down the roads. It was silent and dark, as even the screeches of car wheels faded into the distance.

Illya quickly tried to calculate how far they were from civilization. Could be a good few hours' walk. He went over and pulled Marcellino to a wobbly stand before slinging the Italian's arm over his neck. Leaning over to balance the weight, he began to walk along the roadside.

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After two hours, Illya ignored the pounding sound of his own heart as his aching legs moved on and on. His ears concentrated only on the sudden enginge roaring behind him. It was much, much too fast for a civilian. He quickly struggled to get Marcellino off the road, then whipped out his handgun and dove out of the lights behind the bushes as they zoomed towards him.

He must have been seen, as the car…or cars…ground to a halt. A voice called out, "Marcellino? Luigi?"

Recognizing Solo's voice, Illya holstered his weapon and came out. "Here! Marcellino is hurt, but alive."

"What happened?" Solo's voice was curiously tinged by concern as he jumped out of the car and walked swiftly by Illya.

"We crashed, and he hit his head on the wheel." Illya noticed how Solo pulled Marcellino into one arm while he checked under the bandage with the other. There was something strangely…tender in that position, as if Solo was checking his son or brother or close friend. "I don't think he has a concussion."

"Get his feet." Solo responded shortly, suddenly businesslike again. He peered down the road. "We lost the Feds, but they'll be coming back this way soon."

They loaded him into the back of the biggest car. Solo positioned Marcellino between himself and Illya, keeping the boy steady as the car swerved down the road. As the bright city lights travelled across Marcellino's face, he began to groan.

Solo watched him carefully, and then gave him a small slap. Marcellino's eyes snapped open. "Wha…oh, my head!" One hand went up to touch the jacket. "What happened?"

"You crashed into a wall." Solo said reproachfully.

Bucco laughed from up front. "A seasoned veteran like you crashed into a wall!"

Everyone began laughing. Illya forced himself to, although he didn't see any humor in the situation. Even Solo grinned. But as the mirth died down, he frowned and spoke. "Men in my group aren't supposed to crash. Why should I keep you then, hey?"

Marcellino caught his breath a moment, searching Solo's face almost desperately. Then, he smiled. "Because I'm your favorite boy?"

Solo made a dismissive sound somewhere between a snort and a blaa. "I'd cuff you if you hadn't busted your head. Be thankful to Luigi. I guess somebody thought you were worth saving."

Marcellino turned to Illya and grinned, reaching a hand out. "Thanks, Luigi. I won't forget, my friend."

"You're welcome." Illya took the hand and shook.

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"Seems to me like you and our capitan are very close." Illya sat down next to Marcellino on the crates that were waiting to be smuggled out. He and the younger Mafia soldier had grown very friendly in the past few days.

Marcellino shrugged. "Can't get him to admit it. We like each other, sometimes. When he's not kicking my rear and giving me so much training I can't walk for days."

One side of Illya's mouth twitched in a smile. "You know…I've never heard of a caporegime being so young."

"Oh, they all say the same thing. The big men, even the Family heads, they say Solo is too soft, too reckless. They say he doesn't follow the rules and leads his men into danger. They say it cause they're jealous. Solo is a great caporegime. There isn't any better!" Marcellino cried proudly. "His father was good too. Kept Solo and his mama hidden when his outsider family wanted to take him back."

"You speak of his father in past tense. Is his mother dead as well?" Illya asked innocently, hiding his raging curiosity.

"Yeah." Marcellino's eyes grew dark. "It was his grandparents that did that. Dumped her cause she married one of the Mafia, disowned her, tried to take Solo from her. She just faded away. Then Solo's dad died trying to avenge her, and Solo was raised by different members of the Family for ten years."

"What happened to these grandparents?"

Marcellino looked at the ground. "Solo killed them."

All the good things Illya had been learning about this man shattered with those words. He forced his voice to remain neutral. "How?"

"Blew up their car." Marcellino seemed to be trying to justify Solo's actions. "And they deserved it too, after what they did! Solo was only paying the Blood debt…now he doesn't have to worry about outsiders ever again!"

Illya very much doubted that. "I see."

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Illya ran and jumped, catching the top of the cement cistern and pulling himself up. The pinging of bullets rang out as Solo, from his end of the scrapyard, flushed out the final gang member, who ran straight into Illya's sights. "It's over, Benny!" Illya yelled.

The man jumped at the sound of the Russian's voice and fumbled with his gun, intending to fire back. Illya shot yet another of what he called his impossibly, surprisingly accurate bullseyes and Benny's gun thwanged out of his hand. He clutched it to himself in pain as Solo ran up behind him. "Antonio!" He called. Antonio came from the ditch. "Yeah capitan?"

"Take him to the Family." Solo's face was a mask as Antonio led Benny, his shoulders slumped in despair, away. Solo turned to Illya as the Russian holstered his gun. "You didn't kill him." He said finally.

The story of Solo killing his grandparents was still fresh in Illya's mind; he responded coldly, "killing can't solve everything." Solo holstered his own gun, squinting in the sunshine as he watched Illya. The Russian was uncomfortable with the gaze. He tried to distract him. "What will happen to Benny?"

"Execution at the Family's pleasure." Illya couldn't tell if it was the fight or the idea that was causing the weariness in Solo's voice. "You know the rules, Luigi."

"I do, but I don't always agree with them." Illya said shortly, turning to walk off.

Solo's voice stopped him. "I don't either. But rules have to be followed, not broken."

"We break the rules of society." Illya couldn't help pointing out, even though he knew he was treading on dangerous ground.

"Society isn't really our world. This is the Mafia, this_ is_ our world." Solo paused, and his brow furrowed threateningly. At the tone, the words, the look in Solo's eye, Illya's neck hair prickled. "Definitely mine, though I'm not sure about yours."

Every muscle went tense as Illya's hand inched towards his gun…_Solo knew_…

"Don't." Solo made no move for his own weapon. Instead, he leaned almost casually against a pole. "You're not Italian, I can tell by the way you talk and act. You don't belong in the Mafia. But you can sure hold your place in the world. I admire you for that." He crossed his arms. "Now, let's be honest. What's your real name?"

Illya counted to ten. _Here comes professional suicide._ "Illya."

Solo wrinkled his nose. "Illya? You do look a lot more like an Illya than a Luigi. What sort of language is that from?"

"Russian."

Solo whistled, but his eyes were hard and hostile. "A bit far from home, are we?"

Illya tried to salvage his mission. "I wanted to join the Mafia. So I lied. But I'm here now. I just want to stay alive and earn enough to do it comfortably. That's all I'm here for."

Solo straightened, giving Illya a good look. "Well, I'll tell you what…_Illya_…don't you dare stir when I tell you where to stand. Don't you dare make a phonecall until I tell you otherwise. If I see you do the slightest suspicious looking _twitch_, I will personally kill you without a care. If you run, no matter how far, I. Will. Find you." At the look in Solo's eyes, Illya knew he wasn't boasting. "Consider yourself on probation, again." Solo straightened his coat. "I don't owe you a thing. You amount to _nothing_ if you foul up." One foot imperceptibly moved as he started to walk away, but he stopped, as if changing his mind about something. He glared at Illya with his brown eyes. "So don't." Stiffly, showing no fear of the Russian shooting him in the back, he turned, "let's go."

**to be continued**

_Oh dear, Illya has, I think, met his match in Napoleon Solo..._

_Thanks to laurose for pestering me and getting me to post...naughty authors! Shame on them for procrastinating!_


	3. Chapter 3

The mission had been set back by at least two weeks. Solo watched him like a hawk, made him do all the dirty jobs, and all the tough ones too. The amazing caporegime had no fear whatsoever, never guarding himself around Illya, even though he knew that all Illya had to do was to bump him off quietly in order to secure his own safety, since only Solo knew the truth.

In fact, that very night, Illya was dropping Solo off at his home for a few hours before they both set off on a collections trip. Illya stopped the car and sighed, leaning back against the seat as the headlights died away, leaving only the tiny lights from neighborhood windows to show the street.

Solo glanced at him and gave him perhaps the first amused grin in quite a while. "Something wrong, chauffeur?"

"Oh no, capitan. I couldn't possibly be happier." Illya growled sarcastically.

Solo chuckled and opened his door to get out. When he slammed it shut, he leaned down and spoke through the open window. "Park it a block or two down the street." He paused a moment, looking at Illya, brown eyes meeting blue as they studied each other. Than Solo spoke, quickly and grudgingly. "If you want, you can walk back up here and have a drink."

The nigh was chilly. Illya realized this was a perfect opening to start getting back into favor. He nodded, allowing a small smile on his face. "Thanks. I'll do that."

The friendly look faded quickly from Solo's face as he nodded, like a man signing a bargain. He stood abruptly and began to walk up the driveway. Illya started up the car and drove forward. But in the rearview mirror, he saw the door fly open long before Solo reached it, and a shadowy form raced out and met the caporegime.

Both Solo and the figure were gone from the yard when Illya reached it. He went up the slightly steep driveway and onto the doorstep. He rang the doorbell. No answer. Again, with the same result. He found the door unlocked and pushed inside. He came through the nicely furnished, cozy house, turning a corner into the livingroom.

"Hey!" A female voice yelled at him, causing him to pivot his head towards the sound. The speaker was a lovely, slender lady with a slightly dark skin tone and long brown hair. She wore a yellow, red flowered dress with a yellow waist-sash. Her hand already grabbed a vase of some sort as if in self-defense. The anger that flamed in her eyes almost intensified her beauty. "What are you doing in here? Get out!"

Illya prepared to run should she throw the vase, but Solo suddenly came through another door, jacket gone, carrying a drink tray. "Whoops…Pia, its ok. That's one of the boys."

Pia lowered the vase, but was still frowning. "You never brought them here before."

Solo grinned. "Cause I don't want to have to blow their heads off when they make eyes at you. But Luigi's already in danger of that, so I thought it'd do no harm." He set the tray on the coffee table and went towards her.

Flattered, she set the vase down and kissed him. Illya rolled his eyes and went to pour himself a drink. He took a few sips and then spoke into the air. "Since you appear to know her, can I know her too?"

"Pia Stilleto, now Pia Solo. My _wife_." Solo stressed.

"You better believe it." Pia laughed. Solo pulled her by the hand towards the couch and took a glass, sitting down. She sat next to him.

Illya looked at the couple and, keeping a straight face, said, "Well then, allow me to say that you are very beautiful."

Pia grinned delightedly. "Thanks, Luigi."

Solo cleared his throat pointedly.

Illya got the point, but dared to ignore it. "In fact, you're a good deal more pretty than the other girls I've seen."

"You're kidding me." Pia blushed.

"Shouldn't you go warm up the car or something?" Solo said, giving Illya a glare.

Illya held up the barely touched glass. "But what about my drink?"

"Take the bottle!" Solo snapped, picking it up and tossing it at him, causing Illya to fumble to catch it while not dropping his wine glass. Pia laughed. Illya couldn't help smiling, even though it was rather stupid to do when the man you're teasing would kill you without a qualm. The Russian obligingly took the bottle and retreated outside. He paused at the door as words floated to him from the livingroom.

"He's nice, that blondie." Pia said.

The sound of something shifting on the couch. Reluctantly. "Yeah, he's alright."

Light giggles. "Like he could take me away from you? You're the only guy I love, you know that."

"Yeah, I know, sweetheart."

Silence for a few minutes. Then, "you know, solo mio, speaking of hearts, there's two inside me now."

"Two…you don't mean?"

"Mmmhhmm."

Suddenly, the light sound of something the Russian had never heard before from the caporegime; the sound of joyful laughter. Solo whooped with joy, Pia laughed. They laughed together, and then came a sudden, wonderful silence, while Solo felt for his beautiful baby, and then kissed his beautiful Pia.

Illya stepped out, unable to shake a strange, warm feeling out of his heart.

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Illya ran fast, panting hard. Out, out through the door. Jump, leap…pushing every part of himself forward to the limits, he was unable to completely escape the sudden wave of debris and heat and sheer shock force that crashed into him and left him gasping for breath on the cement ground.

He covered his head with his hands as tiny pebbles and wood shards pelted his back. Another heavy thud beside him as Solo landed. Illya waited till the roar of sound had died down, and sat up in the orange glow from the now flaming warehouse.

The caporegime took a little longer, pushing himself up on one arm and twisting around to sit, face tight as he gazed at the wrecked building. Finally, he spoke. "I guess that's the end of Cousin Charlie."

Illya grimaced, pulling a wood chip out of his lower arm and sucking at the blood. "That's the end of a good deal many things, such as your precious licquor racket in Southern New York."

"Not really important." Solo grunted back tersely. "You ok?"

"I am. You?"

"Yeah."

It was amazing how easily, how naturally they checked for each other's health when they were at such odds with each other. Illya struggled to a heavy stand, dusting himself off. "Blowing up the warehouse was entirely involuntary, you know."

"I know." The short words were so unsarcastic, so dull, so…_tired_, that Illya glanced quickly at the man who was still sitting on the ground. Solo's suit was in shreds, his bare hands and face were smudged and cut. Illya looked no better, but something else was off with the young captain.

"You sure you're alright?" Solo gave him a murderous glare. Illya shrugged. "Alright, alright." The Russian turned his face away, but listened with a careful ear to Solo as he struggled up. Solo was breathing hard, and the slightest, imperceptible groan escaped from him. If Illya hadn't been listening for it, he wouldn't have heard it.

He turned and saw Solo clutching at his side with one hand. Solo saw his gaze and quickly moved the hand, trying to cover up another twinge of pain with an order. "Let's get out of here. You first."

Illya raised his eyebrows, but obeyed. However, even the small walk to the car proved too much for Solo. There was another thud as the man behind him collapsed. Illya wheeled around and saw he had fallen on his side, but was still struggling to stand. Red blood was seeping through the white shirt.

Illya came, his face emotionless, and felt Solo's side gently. As Solo hissed in pain, Illya realized he had broken a few ribs that had broken through the skin and perhaps pierced something internally. Solo had caught the worst part of the explosion shockwave.

Solo's eyes were squeezed tightly shut in pain, but they suddenly snapped wide open and looked straight into Illya's eyes as Illya yanked Solo's gun out of its holster and flung it clattering across the cement, leaving him defenseless. He stared at Illya. And though he didn't like it, Illya admired what he saw. No fear, not a bit of it, only determination and resignation.

Solo looked at him, face stern. "Guess I should have…brought one of the…other boys…along with me." The phrase was punctuated by gasps as he tried to breath. Heat from the building billowed over both of them, blowing back Solo's dark hair like a warm hand. "Sorry to be cliché, but…here's your chance, Russian." He spat the last word in defiance.

A few seconds passed as the fire smoked to the starry sky and the emergency sirens blared off in the city somewhere. Solo clutched at his middle as a spasm of coughing shook him. To his utter shock and surprise, it was the Russian's hands on his shoulders that held him secure and pulled him to a more comfortable position when he had his breath back.

Illya's blue eyes held a mixture of scolding, contempt, and something else Solo couldn't quite discern. Sadness and pity. The Russian took off his own jacket and got up to take some wood slabs that had been blown hither and yon by the destruction. He spoke as he worked, keeping his eyes on whatever he was doing. "I told you, killing can't solve everything." He came back and sat on the ground, taking bits of scavenged rope and ripping up his jacket. "Of course, you can't understand that, with your worshipped code and time honored traditions of murder."

He pulled Solo to a sitting position, ignoring the other man's gasps of pain. He continued speaking as he constructed a serviceable splint for the ribs and tied it around him. "And of course, you wouldn't believe me if I told you I _want_ to save your life. So think what you like about me, helplessly soft, weak, lying, Russian, life respecting me."

He tied the ropes tight as Solo breathed in and out. But Solo hardly seemed to notice; he stared at the Russian with wide eyes. Illya grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stand. Then Solo noticed; he nearly passed out from the pain. But Illya kept walking, and kept talking. "I don't really care what you do to me when you get out of the hospital with everything but your precious ego healed. Kill me like you've killed so many others. Because that's the difference between you and me. Just maybe remember sometime that you wouldn't be around taking others' lives if I hadn't saved yours."

He pushed Solo into the car. Solo began to blacken out, but the last words of Illya's angry rant still floated in his mind. "And perhaps this would be the most difficult for you to understand, Captain Solo of the Mafia, but I'm not just doing this for my own principles, or even for Pia and your baby. I'm doing it for _you_."

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"Man, Luigi, I' d give twenty bucks to find out how you did it!"

"Did what?" Illya answered grumpily, sitting on a barrel and chewing an apple moodily. He was contemplating exactly which result of his recent display would be worse; getting shot by Solo or facing Mr. Waverly.

"Got the caporegime to let you help him!" Mario laughed.

"Yeah." Bucco grinned, tilting a chair. "If any of us gets near him, its like, "bark, bark, bark! Get away from my wound, boy, or I'll give you a worse one!"

"He was a bit incapable of doing any such thing at the time." Illya responded shortly, as the scene by the exploded warehouse flashed before his eyes.

"Hey, don't ever think that, Luigi." Antonio said seriously. "Solo's sent more than one man to the afterlife when he was halfway there himself."

_He seems to be very good at that._ Illya wanted to say, but really, he didn't need to shoot his mouth off anymore, especially not after last month.

"Hey, Luigi! Pal! Guys!" Marcellino ran in. "Just visited Pia's. Solo's back and almost ready for action again. They want you at their house tonight, Luigi. Meal of honor." He grinned.

_Oh dear_. Illya slid off the barrel. "There's no need."

"Hey pal, if the boss invites you to dinner, you eat." Giovanni admonished. The others agreed vocally.

Illya forced a smile onto his face. "I'll be there."

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The house looked the same as it had before, except the door was answered this time. Pia met him and snatched him into an excited hug, speaking rapidly over his muffled protests. "Luigi! That blondie's a nice guy, I said, ha! He's a regular superman, saving solo mio! I could kiss you!"

"Ahem. You're supposed to kiss me, and me alone, Pia." Solo's voice broke in. There was no padding around his chest, but he seemed to be careful not to move, and leaned against the wall. He met Illya's gaze only briefly before dropping his eyes, avoiding contact.

Unaware, Pia went back and kissed him too. "Selfish." She smiled. Then she twisted back to Illya. "And for the big hero, we have malfatti al mascarpone and vincisgrassi! Come on!" She went into the kitchen.

Solo smiled apologetically, staring at Illya's tie. "She speaks a lot of Italian when she's excited."

"I understood."

"You did?" Solo asked, surprised.

"We're having cheese dumplings and stuffed lasagna. Which is good, because I'm ravenous."

Solo laughed shortly at Illya's predatory tone. "Something I should be afraid of?"

"Oh, very."

Like a nervous schoolboy, Solo looked up quickly as Pia's singing lilted to them through the door. He worked one hand rapidly, shifting the fingers together. "Uh…Illya, about then…what you did…what you said…well, that is to say…"

"You're welcome." Illya cut him off.

Solo raised his eyebrows, but then grinned. He reached out and took Illya's hand. "Thanks, Russian boy. Consider your probation over, courtesy of caporegime Napoleon Solo."

"Napoleon?" Illya said in sheer surprise.

Napoleon laughed. "Gets 'em everytime. My mother chose it, in honor of my…other…family members." His voice trailed off in a disturbed way. Then he quickly remastered the situation. "Anyway, show me why I should be disturbed by your appetite." He slapped a hand to Illya's back and guided him in.

"My pleasure." The Russian responded; and it really was.

The dinner at the Solos' home was far more relaxed than Illya's previous visit. Pia was a bubbling source of overjoyed chatter, while Napoleon grinned at her jokes and Illya's sarcastic remarks alike. He even made a few comments that, to the Russian's surprise, managed to make Illya smile.

But it was getting late. Pia started to gather up the dishes. Solo rose to help her, but she pushed him down without looking. "Take a nap, tough guy, before I have to carry you to bed."

Illya rose to take Napoleon's plate as the incorrigible man gave his wife a teasing grin. "I'd like that."

She subtly kicked him in the leg. Illya followed her into the kitchen with the dishes. She set them by the sink and began to wash. Obligingly, Illya moved to dry.

After a little while, Pia spoke. Her voice was much more subdued than before, and her eyes stayed on the bubbles in the sink. Her voice began hesitantly, but slowly gained in strength and flow. "Luigi…I can never tell you how grateful I am. You brought my husband back. You brought my child's father back. Luigi…I know what you think about him. Do not judge him too harshly. The Mafia is the only family he has ever known. They raised him, fed him, trained him. Maybe they didn't love him, but they took care of him...I love him." she added impulsively.

"He does not kill for vengeance, or spite, or joy. He spares all he can and takes as little collections as is allowed. He takes care of his men and leads them to safety, always, no matter what the cost to himself. He would die for them. They know this, and they will do anything for him. It is why he is so succesful, though so young."

"He killed his grandparents." Illya said slowly, unsure.

She whipped her head around to face him, eyes sad yet surprised. "How did you know? But…let me tell you about that. Let me tell you the part of that story that no one knows, except Pia Stilleto Solo."

_He bursts in, sagging like a drunken man, dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, those eyes that dart here and there, feverishly searching for her. They only widen more crazily when he finally sees her and stumbles toward her. "Pia…Pia…" He can only say her name as he falls to his knees, crying into her lap where she sits on the couch,_

_She throws her book away, scared and worried, putting her arms around him. "Napoleon…Nappy…what happened?"_

_He's silent, except when his hands clench so hard on the couch that the knuckles go white. He's still so young, just twenty. He finally speaks, voice raw with long sobbing. "I…I killed them…Pia. They burned." He stiffened. "I didn't…I didn't realize. I just pushed the stick…gone. It flew up in the air all on fire…" he started sobbing. "I'm in the Mafia now, Pia…that…that killing…was my initiation. Gr…grand…gran…" he couldn't say the word. "he was just some fat guy with a white mustache who caused my parents to die…but when I…I blew them…God forgive me, Pia!…they weren't just targets…they were my…my **grandparents**."_

_He wept. He cried. And all she could do was hold him, tell him that she forgave him, that she loved him._

Pia sighed, and resumed washing. "That precious part of his heart is still pure and clean, Luigi. It cries whenever he has to kill. He only shows it to me, but I know its there. There's still good in him…a lot of good."

Illya thought quietly. Then he spoke, studying her reaction carefully. "But it's getting smaller, isn't it?"

She didn't look at him, but her hands went still in the soapy water. When she answered him, it was in a low, reluctant whisper. "Slowly. Very, very slowly. But…yes. It's getting smaller." She turned to hand Illya the last plate.

There were tears in her eyes.

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There was a very marked change between Illya and Napoleon. Even the other Mafia soldiers felt it, although they couldn't quite describe it.

Napoleon treated Illya the same as ever, distant, dismissive, curt. But there was something more behind their verbal exchange, their glances, their actions. Something familiar, something almost…friendly.

One day, as Illya came walking down the street from the apartment building he lived in, he saw Napoleon walk right by him, coming the other way. Napoleon whistled aloud, but gave no other sign. Illya turned around and followed him into an alley.

Napoleon faced him from the shadows of a pile of crates. "Illya. I've got a big job for you, Marcellino, Bucco, and me. Not the usual thing. We're going to do a little exchange. Another very powerful, very ruthless group. Ever heard of THRUSH?"

"No." Illya didn't even blink.

"Stands for Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity, or some stupid stuff like that. We've never messed with them before. But now I have something they'll pay, and pay big for."

"What could we have that THRUSH doesn't, if they're so powerful?"

Napoleon's eyes shone like an excited boy's. "Plans. Plans for some sort of drug. THRUSH offered millions to get it back."

"What sort of drug?"

"I'm not exactly sure," Napoleon shrugged, "It's called Exhale 4."

Illya frowned. "I do have some scientific background. Do you want me to look at the plans and see what it is exactly we're selling back to them?"

Napoleon furrowed his brow an instant, and the old suspicion flitted across his face. But the new look, the friendly, trusting look replaced it. "Good thinking, Illya. Meet me at the warehouse at noon."

Illya felt a sour something twist in his stomach, as he realized what he would have to do.

**to be continued**

_Author's note: I've been advised to change the story breaks from NS IK NS IK NS IK to something else, but asterisks seem to disappear! Is there a different mark that will work?  
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	4. Chapter 4

"_Open Channel D. Kuryakin here."_

"_This is Mr. Waverly. Go ahead, Kuryakin." _

"_I've finally been able to locate Exhale 4, sir. I wasn't able to procure it, as there was a large number of the Mafia around me at the time. But there is to be a meeting between THRUSH and the Mafia tonight at the abandoned Cheswalks Airfield. Three members of the Mafia, myself, and four THRUSH agents."_

"_Excellent work, Mr. Kuryakin. I'll send a squad there immediately."_

_Illya hesitated, and then blurted into the communicator. "Sir…may I ask that…the caporegime be taken alive?"_

"_We always do if they allow us, Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly sounded concerned._

"_I know sir, but can we make sure this time?"_

_There was silence. Then, "I can't risk the lives of our agents for an armed enemy, Mr. Kuryakin." Illya slumped in defeat, but his boss' voice continued, "However, if you really want to ensure the caporegime's safety, it will be your responsibility. Waverly out."_

Illya didn't know whether to feel ashamed, disgusted, or relieved. If anything, the fact that he was put in charge of keeping Napoleon alive only complicated things. No matter what, Napoleon would know it was Illya who betrayed him, even after Napoleon had showed that 'precious part' of himself to Illya.

Still clasping the communicator in one hand, Illya flopped onto his back on the bed, staring up at the roof, knowing yet dreading what he had to do.

)()()()()()()()()(

"You're pretty quiet tonight." Napoleon squinted at the road ahead as Illya drove.

"When am I not?"

"Never. But today you're really quiet, I mean, silent as a tomb."

"No morbid puns, please." Rain poured in rivers down the window. "Napoleon…"

"Hhmm?"

"I told you what Exhale 4 does…what little I could understand from the papers…so why are we giving it to THRUSH?" Napoleon was quiet, looking out the window. Illya pressed on, "you know THRUSH is going to use it to kill thousands of people, take over hundreds of countries…dominate the world. Why?"

Napoleon sat back in his seat and turned to look at him. "Who should we give it to, then? Just tell me, who?"

"The…the Feds…or maybe UNCLE?"

"UNCLE!" Napoleon laughed bitterly. "They already tried to get at it once and failed; you think I'm gonna give it to them on a silver platter? Besides, THRUSH pays better."

Illya felt something cold inside him clamp up. "I thought money wasn't important."

Napoleon glanced at him, irked. "It's more important than no money."

"More important than thousands of people? If you give THRUSH those files, you'll be responsible for the deaths of a thousand people, Napoleon."

"Shut up, Illya. I don't want to talk about this."

"You're going to kill a thousand children, just like the one you're expecting."

"I said shut up!"

"And that's why you can't give them these papers! You'll be killing men, women, and children, just like you killed your grandparents…"

"SHUT UP!" Napoleon's raw throated yell silenced Illya's impassioned pleas. Napoleon was half raising himself from his seat on trembling arms. After a few seconds, he collapsed like a ragdoll as all the rage went out of him. He covered his eyes, his voice low and shaky. "You don't know anything about it."

Illya swallowed, trying to moisten his dry lips as he turned into the offramp. So little time…"Please, Napoleon, you're better than this."

"You can't stop, can you?" Napoleon sounded so old and hurt.

But he was right. "I can't. Not when so many people are going to die. Good people, for the sake of a million green papers." Illya braked suddenly, and the car stopped. He turned to Napoleon. "Don't make the same mistake again, Napoleon."

Napoleon uncovered his face; his eyes were moist. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. "You think you've got me all written down. You don't. You don't know a thing about me. The Mafia is my family, my work, my life. Their boys are my boys, and my boys are waiting for a million bucks. They're waiting for me to come back smiling and victorious and happy. Oh yes, I'll come back like that for them, for Pia. I'll always come back like that. But I'll never be that, inside. It's for them. It's what I do. It's what I am. If you don't drive, Illya, so help me, I'll blow your brains out."

Illya's blue eyes hardened with hurt and anger and sorrow. "So be it." He managed out, starting the car almost violently. He tried to catch Napoleon's eye again, but Napoleon would neither talk to nor look at him for the rest of the drive.

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Illya got out of the car. Bucco and Marcellino got out from the one that pulled in behind them. Four shadowy figures clustered together in the center of the field. Napoleon got out holding the briefcase, still not looking at Illya. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and they moved.

Marcellino and Bucco, silent and stern, came up close behind them. They met the THRUSH men in the field.

The THRUSH leader was tall and thin, his eyes piercing. He held out eager hands for the briefcase. Napoleon hauled it to his chest and patted it. "Not so fast. Our agreement?"

The THRUSH man looked annoyed, but nodded. "You may call me Mr. Gangrene."

"Alright, Gangrene." You would never have recognized the daring, bold Solo in the drizzling field for the sad, shaken Napoleon in the car, "where's the money?"

Gangrene snapped his fingers. A man behind him handed him another suitcase, which he held out towards Napoleon. "As promised. One million dollars."

Napoleon cocked his head and smiled infuriatingly at Gangrene. "A million dollars for a million lives?"

"This has nothing to do with our negotiations, Mr. Solo."

Solo nodded. "As you say, quite right." He handed the suitcase to Marcellino and took the one from Gangrene, opening it. He fingered the green cash, counting handfuls of it. He looked up and gave Gangrene a pleased smile. "All in order, Gangrene."

He snapped the suitcase shut. Illya ducked his head in shamed, futile anger and dashed hopes.

"Except for one thing."

Illya's head whipped up, and he saw Napoleon smiling at him. "The price is too high."

Illya smiled back. He smiled, swelling with pride and joy because that small part of Napoleon's heart had won.

Baffled, Gangrene looked from Napoleon to Illya, and then started as recognition sparked in his eyes. "You! Kuryakin! You're an UNCLE agent!"

"What?" To Illya's horror, Napoleon's smile was wiped away, replaced by a look of shocked disbelief as he stuttered, for once unable to speak. "What?"

His eyes…Illya was sure they would haunt him for the rest of his life. They were full of unspeakable hurt and broken trust. Broken trust…and a ruined friendship. _Why?_

At that split instant, a voice rang out. "This is UNCLE! Hands up!"

Immediately, the THRUSH and the Mafia whipped out their guns and began spraying bullets everywhere at every UNCLE head that popped up. A fist went into Illya's face and a knee rocketed into his guts. He dropped onto the wet cement, knowing that both the fist and knee were Solo's.

Gangrene made a grab for the papers. Napoleon yanked back and they both fell on the ground. Gangrene punched him in the face and dug his hands into Napoleon's throat. Suddenly, Gangrene threw his head up and gurgled, falling.

Bucco pulled Napoleon up, his pistol still smoking. "Back to the cars! Back to the cars!" Napoleon yelled. The Mafia moved as one. Napoleon watched as the prone figure with blonde hair began to move, and his heart twisted. _Why, Illya? Why?_ He stepped back with his men, leaving Illya alone. But he dropped the suitcase. He didn't want it, the money or the plans now. They made him sick with what they had caused, what they had cost him.

Illya shook his bleary vision and saw them trying to reach the cars. The UNCLE agents were there already. With covering fire from Marcellino and Bucco, Napoleon pulled out a grenade and threw it into one of the cars.

A fireball errupted, and the UNCLE agents who weren't killed by the initial blast were thrown or lost their footing, making it easy for the Mafia soldiers to shoot them down. Marcellino ran faster than Illya had ever seen him run, and dove into the driver's seat. Bucco and Napoleon came more slowly, firing and firing and firing their weapons. Illya stumbled up and ran towards them, careful to avoid the bullet hail.

Suddenly, Bucco doubled over and fell. Napoleon only looked at him once, then cried, "Marcellino! Get out of here! Now!"

Marcellino's car door opened.

"I SAID NOW!" Solo twisted faster than eye could see to risk a few shots at the ground by the car door, which then slammed shut again as Solo turned to face the enemy. "Get back to Pia! Go!"

The car started. It sped off, failing in its attempt to run over two UNCLE agents as it broke over the fence and up onto the highway.

Then, a bullet hit Solo. He cried out in agony as one leg buckled under him and he fell. He whipped out another handgun and fired. The UNCLE agents, who had been closing in on him, drew back and raised their weapons again. Suddenly, a shot rang out that hit Solo's hand. He gave a cry of rage and pain as the gun flipped out of his now numb, bleeding hand.

The shot came from Illya's gun.

Clutching one hand, his leg curled up in an odd angle as they gathered around him, Solo pushed his face in the wet gravel, breathing hard, trying to will the pain away and think of a way to escape. But they were all around, searching him for weapons, talking, ascertaining his identification.

A pair of hands began to try and staunch the bleeding on his leg. Napoleon reared up, surprising even himself, and lunged at Illya, grabbing his throat. "YOU!" He roared, crazed from pain and betrayal and defeat. At least ten hands grabbed him and held him down. A needle slipped into his neck, and it all faded, with his last sight being Illya, holding his neck, blue eyes sad as the orange firelight bathed his face.

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Darkness was a long time in leaving. Especially since Napoleon didn't really want to leave it and face what had happened. What a fool he'd been. For a few blessed weeks, he thought he'd found a true friend.

Just another UNCLE agent. Turn the plans over to UNCLE indeed. Russian trying to join the Mafia. Wouldn't kill. So many clues, and he had been blind to them all. What had hindered his normally excellent perception? He had ignored his instincts for the sake of one stupid thing; he had wanted a friend.

He admired the Russian. He was attracted to the Russian. He had grown to trust the Russian. All of which made the betrayal so much worse than some other UNCLE mole. He violently crushed down the emotions that he feared would tear him apart, that even now clamored deep within him: _Why, Illya, why? _

Still unreconciled to all the pain inside himself, Napoleon woke up. It was white. Hospital? He lifted an arm. It wouldn't come. Something tight around both wrists. Stiff wrapping around his sore hand.

He tugged, steadily. It didn't give. He gave a sudden, violent jerk that made the metal framing of the hospital bed creak.

"That won't work."

He stiffened, hate rising inside him. When he finally spoke, his voice was clear, cold, and measured. "Where am I."

"UNCLE headquarters, infirmary." Illya sounded neutral but unsure.

"I'm a prisoner."

Illya didn't know quite how to answer that. He closed his eyes a moment. "For the time being."

"I'm not telling you anything. At all."

Illya stood up. He longed to say sorry, to meet Napoleon's eyes, to release him; but he knew it would only make things worse between them. "I know."

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Waverly inerlaced his fingers and leaned back in his chair. "Mr. Solo, that Mafia captain we captured has escaped."

"Yes sir."

"Not even a THRUSH agent, or any trained agent at all, and he has escaped from UNCLE headquarters."

"Yes sir."

Mr. Waverly's brow furrowed, and he peered scrutinizingly at Illya. "Did you have by chance have a hand in that, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya looked right back at him. He wouldn't deny it; wouldn't justify it. He told the truth.

"Yes sir."

Waverly gave him a few more seconds stare. Then he busied himself with the files before him on the table. "Very well, Mr. Kuryakin. That is all."

Illya did not see Napoleon for a long, long time after that.

**to be continued**


	5. Chapter 5

**1 year later**

Illya shifted the bushes aside and wriggled further towards the fencing, peering through it at the armed men that stood here and there, pacing and talking.

Once again, Illya was spying on the Mafia. But not for papers. He was looking for the daughter of a famous scientist who had been kidnapped five days ago for a ransom. He had no idea why Waverly had insisted he take this rather commonplace mission. Dealing with the Mafia always brought up much more painful memories.

He shuffled closer, taking out his binoculars. The door to the mansion flung open, and two men in suits dragged a struggling teenage girl to a car. One leaned over and whispered something to her. She stopped and allowed herself to be pushed inside.

Suddenly, just as he was about to memorize the liscense plate, Illya felt a boot slam into his back. He oofed as he lost his breath, dropping the binoculars and rolling over clumsily, whipping out his gun and pointing it…he gave a cry of pain as something slammed into his hand, breaking bone and catapulting the pistol away.

He grabbed his hand and moaned as a voice broke through the ringing in his ears. "Just returning a favor."

_What…?_

"Napoleon?"

A hand reached down and yanked him up, a cold metal piece resting gently on his neck. "Call me that again and it won't be your hand, it'll be your head. Still spying, are we? Let's see what Uncle Juliano thinks about that."

Napoleon shoved Illya forward, his face tight with anger, his eyes hard. Illya could recognize nothing in those brown eyes, and a horrible thought hit him. Perhaps, after all this time, the good part of Solo had finally been destroyed.

()()()()()()()

"An UNCLE spy, heh? Tell me, boy, what are you looking for?" The elderly man, somewhat overweight, wearing an expensive suit and leaning heavily on a cane, paced the room.

"Bridget Derlinger. Her father wants her back, you see."

Juliano laughed softly to himself. "You're department doesn't communicate much, does it? The ransom has already been paid. She's on her way home. You, however, are taking the long trip. UNCLE needs to learn that the Mafia's business is the Mafia's business. We get what we want, and no one gets hurt. UNCLE agents come and stir up trouble and people get killed." He walked over and picked up a gold handled revolver. "So we'd better kill you first."

Illya tensed. Then, of all things, Napoleon spoke. "He hasn't really done any harm, Uncle Juliano."

"I know, Solo my boy, I know. But they say an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."

"Why not send him back with a warning?"

Juliano got impatient. "How many times do we got to tell you, Solo? If you're soft, then you'll get pulled down with the likes of them." He gestured towards Illya. "No, weak men like UNCLE agents always die first." He raised the gun again.

_I told you, killing can't solve everything._

_Because that's the difference between you and me. _

_I'm doing it for you._

"I can't let you, uncle."

Both Mafia men stared at each other, while Illya, confused, stared at Napoleon. _Why?_ This was more than disobedience, this was a direct challenge. There was only one solution, unless Solo backed down. And Juliano knew that Napoleon Solo would never, ever back down.

He swung his arm, aiming. A shot rang out as Napoleon fired simultaneously. Juliano stared in disbelief, and then slumped to the floor as blood blossomed from his chest.

Napoleon looked at the corpse. Something strange and dreamylike was playing across his face. Illya was completely at a loss as to what to do or say. He watched Napoleon, carefully. Finally, "Why did you do it?"

"For you, idiot." Napoleon said whimsically. Suddenly, he snapped back into place. "Common, they'll have heard the shot!" He raced towards the door, Illya following. The men outside saw them running out and opened fire. Napoleon tossed Illya the agent's gun and used his own to defend himself. They made it to the car the teenage girl was in, kicking out her stunned driver.

Illya held on for dear life as Napoleon slammed on the throttle, rocketing down the country road, taking sharp, screeching turns at a hazardous speed. He realized Napoleon was releasing his emotions into the driving. "Napoleon, slow down."

No response.

"Napoleon, you're going to kill us!"

It slowed down a little. Napoleon drove in a silent, electric fury to Bridget's house. She jumped out, bruised from the rough journey and eager to be away from them both. Illya stayed where he was until Napoleon snapped, "Get out."

"Where are you going?"

"You've succeeded in forever alienating me from the Mafia. Aren't you satisfied? Out!" Napoleon snarled. The fury in his brown eyes under his loose black hair was mesmerizing at the same time as it was terrifying.

"In your present state you'll probably hit a wall." Illya mentally smacked himself. Why did he always sound so unsympathetic?

"You'll do just as well, now get out!" Napoleon whipped his gun out and pointed it.

Illya saw the weapon tremble, and he understood. Napoleon was afraid. He was confused, bewildered, bereft of the only family he had ever known and rejected by the other for his criminal ways. He was lost. He was desperate. And there was only one person he could turn to now.

Pia.

Illya got out. Napoleon glared at him for a few more minutes. Then, as if coming to a rapid conclusion, he suddenly blurted out in a low, deadly tone, "I wish I'd never met you, Kuryakin." Then he dropped the gun, jammed his foot on the pedal, and the car zoomed off, axles screaming.

Illya closed his eyes, allowing the hurt from that last comment to pass over him.

"What's wrong with him?" Mr. Derlinger asked, his arms around his daughter.

"He's running away, from himself." Illya said quietly. He turned to the scientist. "Do you have a car?"

()()()()()()()

Napoleon had no clear idea at all about the future. He had always been master of the situation, in complete control of himself and others. Now he was a blind, emotional, wreck, and the way he burst into the house shouting for Pia proved it.

Somewhere, a baby wailed. A woman's voice, muffled, mumbled out something incoherent. Then it burst, "Napoleon!"

Everything, his mind, his heart, his eyes, everything cleared. His very blood calmed down as he stared across the room. There they were, dark coats, fedoras…members of Uncle Juliano's family. Four of them. Two had a fierce grip on Pia, and one actually held his baby. It was so wrong to see Luigi's big brown eyes and baby face on the shoulder of a man holding a pistol. It was sickening.

He straightened, looking at the gun pointed at his midriff, ignoring the cries of his family. He looked up into the cold, dark eyes. "Blood for blood?"

The man nodded, his face a mask. "You know the rules, Solo."

"No!" Pia lunged forward, voice hoarse as she kicked and struggled. "No! Napoleon! Let him alone, you pigs! Beasts! My uncles will avenge us!"

"Your uncles are relics from the prohibition days, Pia." The man's face was still neutral. "Besides, they know the rules as much as we do. Solo killed Uncle Juliano, our family head, for the sake of an outsider. He's not one of us anymore."

"What about Pia? My son?" Napoleon's face was as neutral as the others, his dark eyes clear, alert, and dangerous, his mouth in a thin, firm line, hands clenched defiantly. Not a breath, not a hair out of place.

The man looked to the side. "I've got no orders concerning them. Everybody cooperates, they don't get hurt, see?"

Solo took a deep breath. "Are we doing this swift and clean or fancy?"

For the first time, a strange mixture of pity, yet excitement flooded the man's face. "Fancy. Orders too. You can't kill a family head and get away scott free."

Napoleon didn't even blink, he only paled slightly. Pia's face was horrified. Slowly, almost symbolicaly, the third man went over and took Solo's arm, rolling up the sleeve and meeting no resistance. The leader pulled out a knife that glinted in the lamplight.

It was all like some terrible nightmare. Any second, she would wake up in bed with Napoleon safe at her side. It was just a nightmare…just a nightmare…

The man reached Napoleon. With a swift, savage gesture, he stabbed right into the inside elbow and yanked down, digging a bloody trench to the wrist. Napoleon gave a cry of pain, his whole body jerked as he fought not to react. The man grabbed Napoleon's shirt and pulled the knife out, preparing for another plunge as drops of blood fell on the carpet…

Pia screamed.

At that moment, the door crashed down. A bullet went through the head of the knife-weilder, dropping him to the ground, soundless. Wounded yet still frightfully able, Solo wheeled around and punched the man holding his bloody arm.

The baby…Pia flung herself out of her captors' grasp as they fumbled with one hand for their guns. She slammed into the man carrying Luigi, even as he raised his gun at Illya, who came bounding at the two who had just been holding her. The man fell to the ground with Pia on top. Luigi rolled out of his grasp and cried, chubby hands clutching at the carpet fruitlessly.

She grabbed the man's gunhand and pushed, arms trembling as she used all her strength to keep it pointed away. He slapped her and pushed her sharply, aiming…

A hand that was strangely wet grabbed her bare arm and yanked her to a safe distance. Then, Napoleon tackled the man while he was still on the ground, delivering three rapid knock out blows to the face.

Pia scrambled towards Luigi, scooping him up and stumbling towards the safety of the wall. Illya finished off the last one as Napoleon reared to a stand.

The room was silent, except for the heavy panting of the three operational adults. Luigi kicked and began to cry. Pia moved forward to Napoleon, who looked at her and smiled, with such pure relief it was almost exhausting to see.

She felt cold air lick her arm, and looked down. Blood. She turned to look at her husband, and saw his bloody arm and hand. _Oh._ She covered her mouth, fighting her reflexive gag. Napoleon peered at her with concern. "You gonna be sick?"

She uncovered her mouth and shook her head bravely.

Napoleon grinned, swaying on his feet. "Good. Cause I am."

He collapsed. She gave a cry and went forward, but Illya was there first. "He's just suffering from loss of blood. Call the paramedics, get me some sheets or bandages, and he has a good chance."

Pia frowned. "What do you care?" She snapped. "You betrayed him!"

Illya flinched, but persisted with his request. "Sheets, please?"

She put Luigi down on the floor by Napoleon and got them. Illya wrapped them tightly, applying direct pressure. Pia called the paramedics.

Meanwhile, Illya peered urgently down at Solo's pale face. "Napoleon…Napoleon!" He whispered.

Napoleon's eyes cracked open. "Hhmm…oh…ow…"

"Don't move. You're hurt."

"I…gathered."

"Napoleon…" It hadn't been the time to say it before. Now it was. "I'm sorry."

Napoleon was quiet; Illya thought he had drifted into unconsciousness again. But suddenly, he spoke. "Me too."

Illya bowed his head as a weight left his shoulders. He put one hand on Napoleon's shoulder, and squeezed, at the same time continuing to stem the blood flow.

()()()()()()()

"You look like you got stabbed." Illya observed as he walked into the hospital room.

"Ha. Ha. You should be a spy." Napoleon groused, not bothering to look up.

"So should you."

"What?"

"I mean it. It's Mr. Waverly's new whim. Take self-pitying ex-Mafia captains and turn what they call their skills to more productive ends."

"You're kidding me."

"Sadly, no." Illya went over to look out the window. "The job is supposed to pay well, and perhaps get you killed in the bargain. It requires a bit of loyalty and commitment, and a year or so of preliminary courses, I'm afraid."

"UNCLE?"

"Yes." Illya turned around, blue eyes twinkling, a small smile creeping up his face.

Solo grinned, brown eyes sparkling. "I'm in."

()()()()()()()

**A year or so later.**

Illya only shook his leg a little to disengage tiny Luigi, then gave up, leaning on the suite balcony. Napoleon looked down at his son, then looked up at Illya. "You expect me to move him?"

"Considering he IS your son, yes."

"Actually he's more Pia's then mine."

"Says you." Pia retorted, coming out into the night air. "My Luigi will never be the shiftless, worthless, lazy bum his father is." She picked the boy up and he gurgled delightedly, tugging at her loose hair as she leaned over and kissed Napoleon. "And he'll also go to bed at decent hours."

"Definitely not my son." Napoleon laughed. Pia made a face at him and took Luigi inside.

Napoleon looked after her fondly, happily. There was a new goodness in him Illya had never seen before. A new feeling of being home. Illya took a sip from his glass. "Might I break your trance? You haven't told me yet how you're assigned now."

Napoleon looked at him. "Section 1, Number 2. Your partner."

Illya raised his eyebrows. "Already?"

Napoleon nodded."You thinkin what I'm thinking?"

"Mr. Waverly." They both said at once, turning to look at the starry sky over the night covered city. A few minutes of silence passed. Then, Illya turned suspiciously. "Just one thing, remember, I'm your superior."

Napoleon widened his eyes innocently. "How could I ever forget? I'll be sure to polish my shoes, shine my buttons, keep a straight face around the ladies, and show you the utmost respect ever." Then, his face became mischievous. He reached forward and gave Illya a stunning, friendly slap in the Italian way. "Tovarisch."

Illya's face whipped back to look at him, in shock from both the slap and the word. "Where…where did you learn that?"

Napoleon shrugged. "You bothered to learn some sort of butchered Italian. I decided to return the favor and learn Russian. Tovarisch is the first word I looked up. The others are too boring."

"Or too hard." Illya burned inside with pleasure, pleased that Napoleon would learn that one word in Russian just for him, "my friend", or, in more intimate terms, "my brother."

Because he truly liked this American, this man who had managed to keep something good inside himself no matter how he was raised, who was able to come through trial of blood and betrayal and tears, and still call the man who had caused it all a friend. He was more than pleased. He was honored.

Someone snapped their fingers in front of his nose. "Awake? Or is it past your bedtime too?"

Illya schooled on a straight face, trying not to grin at his friend's antics. "No. I just realized I am going to be stuck with you a very, very long time."

"Have a little pity for me, hey? I'm stuck for a very, very long time with you."

Illya nodded soberly. "Agreed. Let us pity ourselves on the eve of a long and dreary partnership of being stuck with each other."

They raised their glasses, clinked them together, and toasted the beginning of a long and glorious partnership and, more than that, a long and wonderful friendship.

FINIS


End file.
